


apart at the seams

by pistolgrip



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Injury, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: Six gets injured. Somehow, he's surprised that Siete helps.
Relationships: Siete | Seofon/Six | Seox (Granblue Fantasy)
Kudos: 39





	apart at the seams

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this through all of prelims/interlude/day 1 in whatever blind, nonsensical haze i was in trying to rank, so if it doesn't make sense that's just what my life is actually like

The wound that the armour-clad enemy inflicts on Six, on its own, is nothing new to him. He stands, intending to fight off the pain—but his vision goes white as _something_ strikes through his chest and radiates outwards until every one of his nerves is on fire.

This isn't poison; he should be immune to almost everything. Enchantments, however, are foreign, and this one makes his injury feel deeper than it is, igniting every neuron until he has no choice but to acknowledge how the enemy's claws ripped across his abdomen, through his thin uniform. It reminds him how soft flesh is, how malleable. How irreparable. How scars remain.

Six's knees give out underneath him as his mouth wrenches open in a gasp he can't articulate; one moment he's upright, and the next, he's on the ground, body twitching against the unforgiving desert.

Grains of sand scrape against the open muscle of his wound, soaking up his blood until his insides are dry. Sand snakes through the cracks of his mask, travelling up his throat as he takes a rasping breath, until he is more desert than air.

Six is fading into the simmering sun, but he didn't come here alone. Through the pain that defines each of his nerves, he yells, " _Siete!_ "—yells like spitfire, blood bursting on his lips.

Siete is hardly an arm's length away from where he collapsed on the ground, but with the way his eyes dart around in a daze, he must be under another enchantment. Six's shout isn't enough to free him from his stupor, but it startles him into stumbling backwards until he almost trips on Six. The enemy's next attack misses him, close enough that it breaks Siete out of his spell.

He gears up for a counter-attack, his eyes flickering to Six's bleeding form beside him and hesitating for only a second. Six sucks in air through his teeth and looks away, even as his body protests with every motion; he's in this position from his own incompetence, first in allowing a blow this devastating against him, and then in allowing enchantments to affect a body that should know no danger in foreign substances. Six nearly vomits with the fire that screams to burst free from his veins, and his spit thins as the first signs of nausea struggle against his self-control, rising like bile up his throat.

Siete sends the monster skittering away, but not dead. He curses, and Six resists the urge to cry out, as well; between losing track of the monster and his own injury, their mission can only get longer.

Six sees the world only in snapshots as his eyes blur and sharpen with each blink; the monster, looming over them. The monster, a pinprick in the distance, kicking up sand in its wake. The bright blue sky, something else approaching in the horizon. Siete, sheathing his sword and running over to him. Siete, beside him.

Siete, fingers gripping the edges of his mask. "This is coming off so you can breathe, first of all," he mutters, and Six doesn't have the energy even protest. Spit runs down his chin as the dusty desert air hits him in full force, and he shoves Siete away to dry heave.

A wind is approaching. The sky is turning yellow. His gloves take on a sickly orange hue, painted on top of black. The sun is as red as the blood that marks his lips as he coughs.

The next time he pushes Siete away, he can barely lift a hand to push against his shoulders before he collapses into the sand. "Six"—Siete rolls him onto his back, and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming, so hard that it nearly bleeds—"You're injured, Jesus Christ."

The statement is so obvious that it makes him feel incredulous. The snapshots blend until time returns to normal. Through the pain, his eyes focus for long enough to see the unreadable expression on Siete's face, and then he _laughs_. It hurts to laugh, but the situation calls for it. "Yes, Siete. I am _bleeding_." His voice doesn't sound like his own.

"Keep your blood in your body, we've got bigger problems," Siete mutters. Without warning, he scoops his arms underneath Six's body, lifting him to carry in one smooth motion. The gash across his abdomen screams with pain, and he jerks in Siete's arms with the sudden, white-hot fire.

Siete holds onto him tighter, pulling the hood over his head. "Sorry, but we gotta high-tail it outta here."

Six knows. The wind turns from a warning breeze to the beginnings of the storm, and even without his vision swimming, he knows that Siete's visibility as he carries them to their hideout approaches zero.

Through his own laboured breaths, his violent coughs as his body cycles through inhaling sand and expelling magic, he realizes that Siete is dragging his leg behind him.

Siete gets through the door of their hideout—a tiny shack hidden far from any prying eyes—and the sandstorm slams it shut for them. There's no room for both of them to begin with, only enough to lay down side by side with a stove and a tiny bathroom taking up the remaining space. It's downright claustrophobic when their bodies don't work as they should, blood in the wrong places and legs bend at the wrong angles.

Six dry heaves again as Siete lays him down on one of the cots and drops into the one beside him. "You still with me?"

"Where else," Six grits out. He's starting to feel lightheaded, and the cacophony builds around the small shack as the sandstorm builds, pelting the window with debris. "Would rather be anywhere else. Stuck with you." Each word is a labour, so much so that Siete puts a finger over his lips to shush him.

Sand gets in his mouth; when Six glares and grits his teeth, he feels each grain grinding on each surface.

"Nuh-uh, no talking, save your energy. It's nice to see you be social with me for once, but please, I want you alive."

"That makes one of us."

"I beg to differ!" Siete prattles on; his light voice is a complete contrast to the methodical, efficient way he strips himself of anything that could carry infection, standing from the cot to wash his hands. From his small bag in the corner, he finds the first-aid kit and opens it with a speed that makes Six wonder if his time perception is still skewed. "You're bleeding all over your cape," he says, as if it were one of Six's quirks and not because he's on the verge of death. "Far from a white flag of surrender."

"Is that a joke?"

"Everyone's a critic." Siete's laugh is too knowing, but still, his eyes are calculating as he pushes Six's uniform up, exposing the gash and grimacing.

"I'm not going to die from this."

Siete's hands move with confidence, taking out everything he needs. "No, but it'll hurt."

The cat's tongue of antiseptic would scrape his bare flesh on the best of days, open muscle and forming scabs succumbing to its sting. Siete's sure of his own skill, his hands deft in their cleaning and inspecting of the wound, but still, it feels like his flesh is being torn from his bone.

He doesn't realize that he's thrashing out until he finds both of his wrists restrained under Siete's grip, finding himself face to face with him, a grin on his lips but concern in his eyes. Six didn't know what to expect from him in this situation—he anticipates jokes at his expense or mockery of his weakness, but the jokes he gets are intended to distract Six from his situation, and Siete hasn't made a single mention of him succumbing to an enchantment so debilitating.

Siete lets go of him after a second, and he keeps his arms there, his hands shaking. "I didn't know I could make you shiver like that," Siete says, wagging his eyebrows—but he's distracted with the needle and thread for Six's stitches.

"Enough, Siete. You cannot—should not help me in this state," he spits out, hands shaking. He must be losing too much blood—Siete blows a raspberry at him.

"Come on, you're so dramatic." When Siete lets go of his wrists, Six clenches his hands into fists; Siete passes him a handkerchief to stuff in his mouth as he waves the needle in the air. "Let's sew you up so you can take a nap and feel better."

No sooner does Six shove the handkerchief in his mouth does Siete begin with the sutures, giving Six no warning. In his rational mind, he knows that Siete is competent enough to perform something as basic as this, but when the needle first pierces through his tender skin, the most carnal part of him wants to yell and push him away, leaving himself to bleed out in pain.

Only the heat of the desert trapped between these thin metal walls, the sandstorm wailing outside, keeps him numb enough from crying out—but he does let out a hiss. Although Siete's eyes are still fogged, he mutters, "Just a little longer," voice heavy with enchantment but hands shaking with adrenaline. "But isn't this fun?"

Six bites back a scream. He feels perpetually on the edge of running out of energy, but still, Siete says or does something just bewildering enough that he doesn't know what to do in return.

Siete doesn't look at him as he finishes the sutures. "No numbing agents, out in the heat of the desert even when a sandstorm's completely blocked the sun, an unfinished mission, you bleeding, _stitches_ —but at least you have the company of Siete, Star Sword Sovereign, Leader of the Eternals, right?"

"No one else I'd rather have tending to my wounds," Six chokes out. His own breath suffocates him in this small space, heavy and humid, and he breathes faster to get more air.

"You're hyperventilating," Siete says.

"Thank you."

"You're gonna pass out."

Now that Siete's pointed it out, he refuses to.

Each pierce of needle through unmarred flesh and the drag of thread through his muscles it's worse when someone else is doing it to him. He's lightheaded enough now to struggle less, which seems like a bad sign—but with how fast Siete is moving, he must be able to tell. "Six, you haven't been melancholy in all of five minutes! You still alright there?"

"Just—Just _finish_." He sounds weak to himself, and he grits his teeth.

"I am," Siete says, cutting the jokes for once. A glass of water appears before him, and Six takes it with shaking hands, downing it. The last thing he sees before everything goes dark is Siete's face, shockingly concerned, not a single trace of amusement as he says something that sounds garbled to Six's ears.

* * *

Six returns to consciousness with Siete's fingers under his chin to tilt it upwards. His lips are against glass, and there's a hand against his back to support him in a sitting position.

He startles, but Siete must be expecting it; he steps back, holding the small glass away, as Six swipes at the unexpected sensation. Even that small motion is enough for him to realize that he can move without excruciating pain, that his facilities are back under his control.

"Elixir, but not quite," Siete says. "Kind of just a half-elixir. Not as potent as what others can make, but given our lack of resources, it'll do. You'll still need rest."

Now that he's more alert, he can see that Siete's changed into clean clothes, the neutral dark browns and creams that hide them in the desert. He has a thin scarf to cover his face, and when he turns to Six, it shakes sand from his hair.

The storm outside hasn't abated in the slightest. "Yeah, it's still just as bad," Siete says, as if reading his mind. "The monster's trail might be covered up, which means," he says, with a grunt as he drops back down onto the cot beside Six, "an extra few days together. Poor you!"

"Poor me, indeed." His throat is sore, but he feels more like himself. He takes the rest of the elixir from Siete's hands when he offers it again, and he watches Siete when he walks away to clean up their small space.

This is still the most confusing part of Six's recovery. The elixir, while not at full power, is enough to relieve the worst of his pain, and when he looks down to Siete's handiwork, he sees each neat stitch, the steady work, the knowledgeable lines. Siete was, and still is, not someone that he would willingly seek for enjoyable company—but not one thing about his assistance was sloppy or dangerous.

Before he can think too much about how existing in the same space as Siete for more days than he'd anticipated could potentially be not the torture he'd thought it to be, Siete interrupts his thoughts with commentary about their mission, how to move forward with the unexpected sandstorm. He keeps his tone business-like while Six regains his bearings.

When he walks over to Six to take the empty vial of elixir from him, Six notices that he's limping. His eyes trail of their own volition down to Siete's legs; around one of them is a makeshift splint.

"My eyes are up here," Siete says. Six grits out a sigh as he looks back up at him.

"You're injured."

"Sure am! So are you. But like you said, nothing that'll kill me."

Six stares at him as he drops into the cot beside Six's, sitting and putting his chin in his hand. "That's it?"

Siete raises an eyebrow, and then he bursts into a grin. "Oh, right, sorry—Six, how _dare_ you faint on me and leave me behind to my own devices!" His voice rises in volume, but even as Six's ears twitch with irritation under his hood, his voice isn't _that_ loud, just startling. Siete clutches his heart with one hand and swipes at Six with his other. "My delicate constitution was left defenseless in a desert, no one to love and care for me—"

"Never mind." The words are more of a sigh than spoken word, and it elicits a snicker from Siete.

"You don't wanna hear the dramatic arc of my fixing myself up while I valiantly drag your body to our love shack, baby _love shack_ , a little ol' place where we can get together—"

" _Siete_. Go back to talking about our next steps at once."

Siete laughs, standing up from the cot and pointing to his splinted leg. "Next steps? Very cruel, Six." Before Six can protest, he ruffles Six's hair with a warm hand, and Six chokes out and brushes his hand away. "Next step is for you not to step at all. You keep sleeping and wear that nasty stuff off, and the second the storm stops, I'll wake you up."

"Siete."

The man in question is already hobbling five steps away to the entrance, and he turns around with the same, infallible smile on his face. "Hm?"

Six lets out a long-suffering sigh, contemplating his next words and whether to say them at all. Still, Six has to give credit, so with his eyes shut tight and his brows furrowed, he mutters, "Thank you for your assistance, regardless of your personality compounding further pain upon my physical torment."

When Siete doesn't respond, he opens an eye and shifts on the cot. It creaks under his weight like a gunshot. He catches a glimpse of Siete's surprise before he can reel it in. "Anytime, Six."

"Why?"

"Did you really just ask me why I wouldn't leave you to die in the middle of a mission?" Siete snorts. "Obviously, I need someone alive around me on this mission to listen to my comedy routine!"

Six lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, as if he expected anything else from Siete. His head drops down, and he closes his eyes. "Forget it."

"I will not."

He doesn't bother giving that a response, but still, as his body works to negate what's left of the enchantment in his body, he drifts off with the thought that he must be absurd to trust Siete to guard over him in such a weakened state—and yet, it doesn't feel wrong.


End file.
